


I can't get enough (of the thing that you do)

by moorglade



Series: An Officer and a Submissive [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - D/s, Collars, Cultural Differences, Dom Rodney McKay, Dom Ronon Dex, Dom Teyla Emmagan, Fantasizing, Fluff, G-rated Kink, Leashes, Light Angst, Multi, OT4, Sub John Sheppard, Submissive-ist attitudes in a D/s universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6515965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorglade/pseuds/moorglade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a fantasy, and it goes like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can't get enough (of the thing that you do)

John has a fantasy, and it goes like this. 

His spouses are all dressed in their finest – Rodney in a sharply-cut suit, Ronon in his formal navy Specialist’s robe, and Teyla in a richly embroidered tunic and flared skirt. John’s wearing something silky and clinging and black, which shows off his arms and chest, and makes it quite clear that he’s not wearing underwear. And because this is a fantasy, he doesn’t have to worry about chafing. 

The material flows over his body as he moves, and he’s attracting plenty of attention from all the other tops around. He can feel their eyes wandering across his body, and he knows he’s a pretty sub. But for all the glances, it’s strictly look-but-don’t-touch, because it’s quite clear that John is owned. 

He’s wearing his smart cuffs: the black enamel pair he keeps for formal occasions. His collar is black too, and attached to it is a long leash, with Teyla casually holding the other end. And because this is a fantasy, it never gets tangled around anything. She never pulls too hard, and chokes John, or not hard enough, so that he might as well not be leashed at all. 

It’s just taut enough that John can’t forget for one second that his spouses are publically demonstrating their ownership of him. His collar is a symbol, and his cuffs are a symbol, but neither of them put him into quite the same state of whimpering bliss as his leash. Each tug on his collar, as the leash tightens and compels John to go wherever his tops lead him, makes him shiver deliciously. Somehow being physically dominated like that feels even better than being ordered to follow. 

They arrive at the restaurant, and because it’s a fantasy, it’s a blend of John’s favourite bits of both Earth and Pegasus. Rodney asks for a table for three and one, just the way he would do back on Earth. But the eating area the waitsub shows them to is an exact replica of the booths at the Great Llamboan Market. 

Every time they’ve been there in reality, John has had to concentrate on their negotiations. The Llamboans trade the way Teyla dances with her bantos rods: swift, graceful, skilfully drawing the eye away from the fact that her feet are as deadly as her hands. John isn’t an expert trader with a lifetime of brokering deals, but he respects Teyla’s abilities too much to distract his spouse from her work with his inattention. 

On the way back and forth to the gate, though, he’d never been quite able to hide the fierce surge of longing that shot through him. The tops of Llamboa City treated their subs as though they were infinitely precious and delicate, and yeah, John didn’t really want to be a pampered housesub at all, let alone as a way of life. But just for an hour or so it would have been wonderful to be collared and leashed and displayed at his tops’ feet; shown off like a treasured possession while he was petted and caressed. 

It was just a fantasy, that was all. But while they were marooned on Earth, he’d jumped at the chance to make at least part of it come true. 

It didn’t quite go according to plan. 

Thanks to a transporter glitch that took Rodney over an hour to fix, they were late enough to the restaurant that not only their reserved table, but all of the mixed seating, had already gone. It would of course have been quite unseemly for a party including three tops to eat in the half-full subs’ dining room, so they were eventually shown to a table in the tops’ lounge. John was the only sub in the room, and though every top looked round as he followed Teyla in, it didn’t make him feel strong and desirable, the way it always did in his fantasy. Instead he felt as horribly visible and on display as he had the first time he’d been summoned to a packed officers’ mess for morale duty, and realised that all the rumours he’d heard of how tops behaved in their own spaces were, if anything, understatements. 

The table they were taken to had four chairs, and there wasn’t even a post on the table for Teyla to tie John’s leash to. And then when Rodney’s drink was brought, a slice of lime perched jauntily on the side of the glass. 

So twenty minutes after they’d gone into the restaurant they were back on the street again, and John felt small and stupid and inadequate, and not in a good way. He followed his spouses back towards the boat they’d used, sullen and silent and not even able to enjoy being leashed in public. 

But they hadn’t taken the road down towards the Bay. Instead they’d turned back towards the brighter lights, and within five minutes they were entering a little bar Teyla knew. It came as a bit of a surprise to John that she knew anywhere on Earth, but Teyla explained that she’d gone there with Captain Cadman and some of the other female tops. 

It wasn’t anything like John’s fantasy. 

The tables weren’t really tables at all, just stools set next to the long bar tops. The floor was varnished wood, easily wiped down but uncomfortable to sit on, and there weren’t any special seating provisions for subs. And no sooner had they found somewhere to sit, when they were approached by a couple from the League for the Liberation of Leashed Submissives. 

“Do I look like I don’t want this?” John snapped, pushing the offered pamphlet aside. 

Like all subs, John had had his fair share of encounters with tops who weren’t dominant, just abusive control freaks. He was well aware that he’d been lucky to be born into a time when he could vote, have a job, and wear a leash by choice, and not by necessity. He’d never be able to forget that one of his great-grandsubs had been bought: sent out from England as a mail-order submissive. 

Some of his friends absolutely refused to be leashed, no matter the circumstances. Miko considered it an utterly demeaning holdover from the times when subs had not sometimes been treated like property, but had actually _been_ property. Katie thought it looked ridiculous. To Halling a leash was a prop for the bedroom, rather than something to wear outside it. But like many subs who chose to be leashed, John felt that the tradition was his to reclaim. And if his friends could accept that, despite their own differing views, he wasn’t going to be told otherwise by an organisation of literature-wielding tops. 

“You don’t have to let yourself be treated like this,” the top said, setting the pamphlet down on the bar beside John. “It’s the twenty-first century: submissives have rights, you know. Despite what they may have told you, these tops can’t force you into – ” 

“Leaving, _now_ ,” John said from between gritted teeth. Under other circumstances, he could concede that L3S had one or two reasonable points, but the whole day had been meant to be about revelling in his submission. Instead, all he’d got out of it was two mouthfuls of beer and a growing sense of frustration. 

Rodney paid for their almost untouched drinks, and they left the bar. As they went outside again John started to stride off, only to be brought up short by the pull of his leash. 

“No, John,” Teyla said calmly. “It does not matter what those others believe. The three of us all know that you _choose_ to grant your submission to us.” 

“We know it’s a gift,” Ronon said, running a hand over John’s collar. “We’re grateful.” 

“You don’t – you don’t have to be _grateful_ ,” John said, ducking his head, and just like that he was at peace. He still kind of wanted to stomp about and shout at the thought that he couldn’t even wear a leash without complete strangers presuming they could judge his desires, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because he _was_ submissive, and his choice was to give his obedience to his spouses. And at that moment what they wanted him to do was to let it go, and for him to behave himself. 

John dropped to his knees, wincing a little at the shock of the cold paving slabs, and pressed soft kisses to their legs. “Yours,” he whispered, leaning into them just for a moment. 

“Ours,” Rodney agreed, tugging gently at John’s leash until he was back on his feet. “And you know what? Earth _sucks_. It’s freezing, and you can’t even get a decent peshka fruit cocktail around here. How about we go back _home_ before we all die of hypothermia, and try this again in our own quarters, hmm?” 

“If you’re feeling cold, I can warm you up,” John said, waggling his eyebrows, and suddenly home sounded _perfect_. Home was warm and real: a place where sometimes the transporters broke down, and sometimes there was a big enough glut of peshka fruit to make cocktails with, and everyone knew who John belonged to. 

Maybe there was something to be said for reality after all. 


End file.
